The Bed and the Bachelor

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Miss Pruitt broke off, a row of tiny lines forming between her brows. “I received a letter from her every now and then over the years. She was a kindly, polite young woman, who always respected her elders, even foolish spinsters like me. Had her letters for nearly six years, then all of a sudden they stopped. I haven’t heard a word since then. Do you think she might have died?”

  He met her sad blue eyes. “I do not know. Let us hope that is not the case.”

  Miss Pruitt’s lower lip quivered briefly, her gaze sliding away. “Yes, let us hope.”

  “In her letters, did she say where they lived?”

  She glanced up again. “Paris, for a time, I remember that quite plainly. She said their apartment in the city was burned, and they lost a great many of their possessions. She had two more children, sons.”

  Brothers? Drake thought. Anne . . . Sebastianne, he corrected, had mentioned having two younger siblings, both boys. The more he heard, the more the puzzle pieces fit together.

  “Did they remain in Paris?”

  He hoped not. Entering Paris undetected might prove extraordinarily difficult though not impossible.

  She shook her head, the lace on her cap fluttered again. “No, she wrote in her last letter that they moved into the countryside. I am sorry, but I cannot remember the village.”

  Damn. Without the name of a town, there was a good chance his search would be hopeless, particularly as an Englishman skulking around inside an enemy nation. His French was good, but still, he was far from a native, and his Parisian dialect would make him standout among the country folk. Still, there had to be a way to find her. He would just have to put his mind to the problem.

  “If it would help, I still have the letter,” Miss Pruitt offered in a helpful voice.”

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “The letter. Her last one to me. Would you like to see it?”

  A smile moved over his lips. “Yes, thank you. I most definitely would.”

  Chapter 26

  Eight days after her return to France, Sebastianne had settled back into her old life—or nearly so, since nothing felt quite the same to her anymore. During the day, she smiled and laughed and tried to be the warm, loving daughter and sister she’d always been. But at night, when she was in her bedroom with no one there to see, a hollow emptiness stole through her. Sometimes the pain was so fierce it left her gasping, and she would press a fist to her mouth so no one else could hear.

  She didn’t cry, or at least not much; some wounds were simply too deep for tears. But she ached, and in her dreams she did cry, reaching out for Drake, who turned away from her with angry words and hate-filled eyes.

  Then there was her constant worry about Vacheau. When would he realize what she’d done? When would he appear to demand the rest of the code?

  On the morning after her return, she’d left the house to go shopping in the village. But she’d taken a detour first, making her way into one of the many troglodyte caves scattered throughout the area. There was one long-abandoned cave inside a high cliff face not far from the house that she’d explored quite often when she was younger. Its entrance lay concealed behind a thicket of wild rosebushes and trailing vines that discouraged most people from venturing inside. Beyond, however, lay a fascinating arrangement of ancient tunnels carved of fossil-laden tuffeau stone that provided any number of clever places in which one could conceal an object. It was into one of these hidey-holes that she’d placed the cipher, wrapped safely inside a protective length of oilcloth.

  Then she’d begun to wait.

  And wait.

  But so far he had not come, and in her heart of hearts she wished he never would. Having decided it was safer for her family to remain in ignorance about what she’d done, she said nothing to them, not even her father. Instead, she left him to his books and his ideas, sending him off with a smile to the small outbuilding that served as his workshop and library. Which left her with her brothers inside the house most of the day, particularly now when there were no lessons at the small village school.

  “I am finished,” Julien declared, as he laid his fork across his empty breakfast plate. “May I go visit Marc for a while?”

  Marc Rancour was a nearby farmer’s son and Julien’s closest friend.

  “Me too!” piped Luc, not wishing to be left out of any excitement.

  Julien groaned aloud and rolled his eyes.

  She gave Julien a quelling look that told him to be kind to his brother, or else. As for his request, what she wanted was to keep them locked inside the house and never let them out of her sight. But they were growing, energetic boys, and she couldn’t keep them prisoner no matter how much she wished she might. Besides, if she refused, she would be compelled to give an explanation, and that she did not wish to do. Vacheau had never harmed them in the past, she told herself, so surely they would be safe enough in her neighbor’s care for the day.

  “Oui, you and Luc may visit,” she said, “but promise you’ll go straight there, no detours, and stay close to the Rancours’ house. I don’t want you boys wandering off or getting into trouble. And don’t speak to strangers.”

  “What strangers?” Julien piped. “No one new ever comes here.”

  Sebastianne scowled, wishing that were always true. “Be that as it may, should you encounter anyone you don’t know, you are to say nothing to him and go find Madame Rancour. Is that understood?”

  Julien gave her an appraising look, then shrugged. “We’ll be careful. No strangers. May we leave now?”

  Despite her concern, she smiled and gave him a nod.

  Shoving back his chair, he sprang to his feet. Luc followed his older brother’s example, and as if a wind had risen under their feet, they sailed across the room and out the door.

  She stood, arms crossed for a long moment before leaning over to pick up their plates.

  Finished washing the last of the breakfast dishes some minutes later and setting them aside to dry, she wiped her damp hands on her apron. Crossing to the small larder next to the kitchen, she gathered the onions, carrots and potatoes that would form the basis for that night’s soup.

  Yesterday, the village butcher had offered her a prime cut of beef and some bones that would add flavor and substance to the soup. He’d also asked her to walk out with him after church on Sunday. She had accepted the bones, paid for the beef, and uncategorically refused his attempt at courting. The last thing she needed just then was to give even a hint of encouragement to any would-be suitors. She wasn’t interested in a husband and wanted to make that quite plain.

  Of course, if Drake had asked me . . . she thought with a wistful ache. But she would never see Drake again, and he would never ask her to be his wife.

  In need of herbs and a few of the tomatoes growing fresh in the small garden at the back of the cottage, she slipped a small knife into her apron pocket. Fitting a simple straw bonnet onto her head, she hooked a shallow woven basket over one arm and left the house. Papa, should he decide to emerge from his workshop, would know where to look for her.

  The July sun beat down—hot, fat and yellow. Glad for the shade that her hat provided, she reached the herb bed and knelt to cut what she would need for the cook pot. The delicate sweetness of thyme sent forth a succulent perfume as she laid the stems with their tiny green leaves into her basket. Next, she cut fragrant springs of marjoram and tender tufted branches of parsley.

  She moved on to check the ripeness of the tomatoes, plucking two that weighed down their stems like a pair of fist-sized rubies. Deciding to inspect the progress of her haricot vert vines in hopes of picking a mouthful of tender beans to go with that night’s beef dish, she walked farther along the rows.

  Suddenly, a shadow loomed over the tilled earth like an eclipse that blocked out the sun. Peering upward from beneath her bonnet brim, she gave a shudder as she met the cold, brutal gaze of the
man whose arrival she’d been both expecting and dreading.

  Her hand tightened instinctively around the knife. Her day of reckoning had finally arrived.

  “Where is it?” Vacheau demanded without preamble. Grabbing her upper arm, he gave her a rough, little shake. “Did you really imagine I wouldn’t find out what you’d done? You ought to have run, you know. You ought to have had the sense to hide while you still had the chance. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll wish you’d found a hole somewhere and buried yourself in it too deep to find.”

  Unflinchingly, she met his gaze. “I had no wish to run. Or to hide. I knew you would find me. In fact, I was counting on it.”

  His eyes widened in clear surprise. “Really? Then apparently you aren’t as intelligent as I assumed.”

  “Are your threats supposed to frighten me? If so, I’m afraid you’ll have to do far better. Now, take your hands off me, coquin, or it will be more than herbs and tomatoes I slice open with this knife.” To emphasize her statement, she lifted the blade in her hand a few significant inches higher.

  He glared for another long moment, then abruptly let her go. A laugh rippled from his throat, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a smile that didn’t reach his flat, dark eyes.

  Shark’s eyes.

  She suppressed the need to shiver again, determined to let none of her inner emotions show.

  “You’ve certainly grown brave since last we met,” he mused. “Stealing seems to have made you bold, or don’t you care about your family’s welfare anymore?”

  “I care about them more than ever, which is why you would do well to stay as far away from those I love as possible.”

  Her words drew a fresh laugh from him.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so amused if I were you,” she stated with apparent calm. “I’m the only one now who can give you what you want, and if you put so much as a scratch on my brothers or my father, you’ll never get it. Your superiors won’t like your returning empty-handed, now will they?”

  His jaw tightened. Plainly, his superiors were displeased with him already.

  “You see,” she continued, “I did take the time to hide something. I’ve put the solution to the cipher in a place you’ll never find. There are a million and one spots around here where a person can conceal a prized object. What are the chances of your locating that particular place all on your own?”

  “Not bad if I torture the location out of you.”

  She shrugged as if his threat didn’t made her insides twist with horror. “You’re welcome to try, but it will do you no good. You see, I realize that once you’ve got the entire code in hand, you’ll slaughter all of us anyway, so I have nothing to gain from confessing to you.”

  “What of your brothers? Your father? They might not have your . . . fortitude.”

  “No, they don’t. Which is the reason why I’ve told them nothing of what I’ve done. They don’t know anything about my keeping the solution to the cipher, so brutalizing them will gain you nothing.”

  “You might be lying,” he said through his teeth.

  “I might.” She met his serpentine gaze, her own absolutely unwavering. “But I’m not.”

  He glared, frustration rolling off him in almost palpable waves. “Then what is it you want? What do you hope to gain with this foray into blackmail?”

  My freedom, she thought. My family’s freedom. For now and forever.

  “I want a writ of safe passage, signed and sealed by the Emperor himself. I want Napoleon’s hand-sworn assurance that I and my family are free to live in peace, or should we wish to do so, to leave the country with no restrictions or conditions set upon us.”

  Vacheau laughed again, this time with genuine amusement. “A letter of safe passage from Napoleon? You don’t ask for much.”

  “I ask for a very great deal,” she said with complete seriousness. “Those are my terms. Bring me the Emperor’s writ, and I will give you the working cipher. Otherwise, you can try to obtain it again on your own. I have to warn you, though, that I doubt you’ll be able to insert a spy into Lord Drake’s household again. Fool him once . . . but I assume you know the rest of the saying.”

  His fingers clenched, flexing at his sides as if he were imagining her neck between them. “I should kill you for this.”

  “You could, but it still won’t get you the cipher.”

  He shook, his rage so great she could see veins pop out on his forehead. “I shall return.”

  “I shall be here.”

  His gaze black as death, he spun on his heel and stalked away.

  She stood motionless, watching long after he had disappeared from view. Only then did she make her way to the small wooden bench tucked against the side of the house. Sinking down, the basket forgotten in her numb fingers, she let herself shake.

  Four days later, Drake arrived on the outskirts of Montsoreau. He took care to avoid the village center, just as he’d taken care to steer clear of any large enclaves of people on his long journey through France. Not that he hadn’t encountered the occasional farmer or innkeeper on his way, but in spite of his more-than-passable French, he saw no reason to invite undue scrutiny. He’d already deflected more than one query about his “Parisian” accent and where and why it was he was traveling. To satisfy the curious ones, he’d concocted a tale about being on his way to visit a sick aunt, a story which explained both his “foreign” manners and obvious lack of familiarity with the countryside.

  So far he’d been lucky to avoid encounters with any authorities, except for one afternoon at a coaching inn where a band of soldiers had taken seats in the tavern where he’d been having a meal. Slipping quickly outside to the stables, he’d waited for his horse before riding away without inviting their notice.

  Now finally, he was in Montsoreau, where Clara Greenway’s letter said she and her family had settled. He hoped they still lived there. He hoped her daughter Sebastianne was his Anne.

  And if she was? What then?

  He would decide when he saw her. He would decide, when she once again stood before him, exactly how he would claim his retribution.

  For her lies.

  For her thievery.

  For her betrayals.

  Walking along a path on the outskirts near the village, he surveyed the tree-lined fields, his boots crunching quietly against the gravel. A bird warbled out a jaunty tune, a pair of bees buzz-buzzing in syncopated harmony as they droned lazily from one flower to the next. In other circumstances, he would have found it a pleasant scene and taken enjoyment in the clear July day, but his reasons for being here in France, secretly and in a time of war, made it rather difficult to relax. He hadn’t let down his guard once since leaving England, not even when he slept. He would need to keep up his vigilance here as well, particularly since he would have to approach one of the houses soon to ask for directions.

  He’d walked only a couple more yards when an odd rustling noise drew his attention to a nearby stand of bushes. In their depths roamed a boy of nine, or perhaps ten, years of age, his golden brown hair glinting in the sun as he beat the foliage with a stick. Clearly unaware he had company, he grumbled something under his breath and gave the bush another savage swipe.

  “Bonjour,” Drake said in his most casual-sounding French. “Are you hunting for something in that bush or simply annoyed with it?”

  The boy stopped and stared at him, the stick motionless in his hand. He looked Drake up and down appraisingly. “Non, the bush has done nothing. I’m just angry, that’s all.”

  “Ah. Bad day,” Drake said sympathetically.

  The child nodded, his lower lip thrusting forward in a pout. “Julien and Marc wouldn’t let me go with them to climb the cliffs. I’ll get hurt, they said, and land them in trouble. But I wouldn’t! I’m a good climber.” Raising the stick high, he brought it down again on the bushes. “They aren
’t even allowed, you know,” he confided mulishly. “They’re not supposed to climb the cliffs either.”

  “Your brothers?” Drake asked, tucking his thumbs into his pockets.

  “Julien is. Marc’s his best friend. They don’t want me around ’cause they say I’m a pest and spoil all their fun. I’m not a pest or a tattle.”

  Drake concealed a smile. “That’s the trouble with older brothers and their friends. They can be mean and unfair sometimes. I should know, since I have three older brothers.”

  The boy’s stick fell quiet again. “Three? Wow.” He scuffed a foot against a clod of turned earth, then mashed it down with the sole of his shoe. “I wish I could go to the village and see my friends, but I’m not allowed right now.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “My sister says it’s not safe, that there are bad men around because of the war.”

  “It sounds like your sister is a very wise woman,” Drake stated, his interest piqued. Could this boy be one of Anne’s young brothers? She’d told him she had two. Could luck have led Drake directly to her doorstep?

  The child nodded. “She says I’m supposed to stay close to home and not talk to strangers.” With those words, his eyes bulged, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, clearly realizing his error.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Drake said soothingly. “I’m sure she can’t have meant me since your sister and I are acquainted.”

  “You are?” the boy said, lowering his hand to his side.

  Drake nodded. At least I believe we are, he thought, deciding suddenly to put his hypothesis to the test. “Her name is Sebastianne, is it not?”

  The boy nodded again, confirming Drake’s suspicions.

  So I have found her. But is Sebastianne the woman I know as Anne Greenway or not?

  “And you must be Monsieur Calvière,” he said, taking another calculated risk.

  A giggle rippled from the child. “I’m Luc!”